Clockmaker, The

By Jane A. Adams

Skillfully plotted … Adams shines light on the darker realities of the times without being heavyhanded Publishers Weekly>/b>

Detective Chief Inspector Henry Johnstone discovers that things are not as they first appear when clockmaker Abraham Levy’s nephew goes missing.

February, 1929. Clockmaker Abraham Levy’s young nephew has vanished. He was last seen boarding a train on his way to see his fiancée, and with no sign of foul play, the suspicion is that he may have got cold feet about his upcoming nuptials and alighted at an earlier stop. The police seem to think so, but Abraham isn’t convinced.

Feeling he has no other option, Abraham makes an unexpected visit to DCI Henry Johnstone to appeal for his help. Despite his initial reluctance, Henry’s curiosity gets the better of him, and his review of the case soon leads to a startling discovery. As Henry is plunged fully into a new investigation, it seems the truth is far more complicated and disturbing than it first appeared.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Severn House
• Release date: Jul 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781448302260

Jane A. Adams

Jane Adams was born in Leicestershire, where she still lives. She has a degree in Sociology, and has held a variety of jobs including lead vocalist in a folk rock band. She enjoys pen and ink drawing, martial arts and her ambition is to travel the length of the Silk Road by motorbike. Her first book, The Greenway, was shortlisted for the CWA John Creasey Award and for the Author's Club Best First Novel Award.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

3 February 1929

It wasn’t that she was exceptionally beautiful, more that she was striking. Colourful. And on such a drab February day as this one, colour and vibrancy were more than welcome.

He had been looking out for her, and she had got on the train one stop after him. He couldn’t recall the name of the village; this train stopped everywhere. Slow and tedious and not particularly warm. She had glanced into the compartment he occupied – he and a couple he assumed were married. Sitting opposite one another, the husband with his nose buried in a newspaper and she with her eyes fixed on a book, they had said little to one another since the journey began, so it was hard to judge the exact status of their relationship. But the presence of the older woman meant that she felt at liberty to enter the compartment and sit down in the corner furthest away from him. A quick glance was all she had shot in his direction, also taking in the couple and their bags on the luggage rack, but it had been enough for him to admire her eyes, a browny grey, like smoky quartz, and her hair, beneath the dark-blue hat, a vibrant, almost ruby red. Her dress, peeking out from her dark coat, was an equally extravagant and almost emerald green.

Startling, he thought. Exotic, and the thought made him smile.

She was not obviously beautiful, not like Becky. Becky was pale, a real English rose – for all that her parents were anything but – with dark hair and hazel eyes. Small and fragile, like a bird; he knew that she was gorgeous and that everyone said he was a lucky young man … so why was he so drawn to this more robust and curving beauty sitting across the carriage from him? She did not look his way, after the brief nod of greeting that took in everyone in the carriage, and soon also had her attention taken by a magazine.

Idly, Joseph peered at their reading matter. The man was absorbed in the business pages of Friday’s Financial Times – two days out of date, Joseph thought, so either he was desperate for news or he only fancied himself knowledgeable. The wife, if that’s what she was, very properly, if drably clad in a slim-fitting tweed skirt and camel coat, read Evelyn Waugh, which Joseph considered very unsuitable reading matter for a respectable woman, especially in a public place. The front cover of the girl’s magazine, Woman’s Way, featured a young flapper in a red cloche hat. To his eyes, it looked racy and he wondered if Rebecca ever read such things. Not if her father had anything to do with it, that was for certain, but Becky was proving to be surprisingly independently minded. And anyway, what Becky and her family – or his family – thought really didn’t matter now.

Solutions were lacking if they were to please their families and still grasp at a little happiness for themselves, and it had become obvious that Joseph must take action. Joseph had previously had no objection at all to marrying Becky. Far from it, in fact. He was content to be partnered with a young woman he’d known from childhood and who genuinely liked him as much as he liked her. But sometimes, he thought, life knocks you and your plans for six and makes no apology for it.

A few stops later, when the train pulled into Bardney station, the girl with red hair prepared to alight.

Joseph was puzzled, confused. He waited for her to be visible on the station platform, craned forward, resisting the temptation to open the window and lean out, saw the gay red hair beneath the dark-blue hat, his gaze hungry for the brightness of the flash of green dress beneath the coat.

Suddenly, Joseph was on his feet, grabbing his hat and then hurrying past the couple and out into the corridor without so much as a word.

The man looked up. ‘I say, he was in a frightful hurry. Do you think he forgot he was getting off here?’

His wife looked up and then out of the window. ‘Some kind of argument going on,’ she said. ‘That young woman who just got off and a young fellow in a flat cap.’

The train pulled out and they both returned to their reading matter. It was only much later, when they retrieved their luggage from the rack, that they took note of a case that wasn’t theirs. Small, a little battered, of thick, tan leather that had been inexpertly repaired at the corner and reinforced with a panel darker than the rest.

‘That young man,’ the husband said, ‘must have left his suitcase behind. Silly young fool.’

The woman frowned and fingered the label, tied to the handle with coarse string. ‘Joseph Levy,’ she said. ‘We should tell the guard. What can the boy have been playing at?’

Her husband shrugged, already dismissing the incident as no more than a curiosity. On leaving the train, they duly reported the bag to the guard and thought no more about it.

ONE

20 February 1929

The constable had come into the Central Office of Scotland Yard and told Henry that he had a visitor waiting downstairs in reception.

‘A gentleman, sir. His name is Abraham Levy and he says that you know him. He requests a few minutes of your time.’

It took Henry a moment or so to remember who Abraham Levy was and then a moment more to wonder why on earth he had come all the way to the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police at Scotland Yard, instead of taking his problems to the local division. Henry tidied the files on his desk and then went down to see what the clockmaker wanted.

Abraham Levy had cropped up in an earlier investigation, but only as the landlord of someone whose unfortunate death Henry had investigated. Detective Chief Inspector Henry Johnstone recalled that he had spoken to Abraham Levy only on a couple of occasions but that he had liked the man.

Abraham had seen him coming down the stairs and unfolded himself from the hard wooden bench set near the door, an uncomfortable seat and draughty spot that Henry always assumed was established to dissuade anyone from staying too long. Abraham held out his hand; Henry shook it and then sat down beside Abraham.

‘I can try to find some office space so that we can talk or we can chat here. The constable said this would only take a few moments.’

If Abraham was put out by this slightly dismissive attitude, he did not show it. Instead, he set his hat on his lap and folded his hands neatly behind it and looked at Henry carefully. ‘When we met, it struck me that you are a just and careful man,’ Abraham said. ‘Some policemen I have known, they go through the motions only. They look as though they are doing something and they collect their pay and they go home and nothing has been done, but I do not think you are that kind of man. I come to you because so far I have only met that kind of policeman and I need someone different. Someone who will not just pretend to be concerned and go away thinking, Oh, this is just a Jew boy I’m dealing with, so what concern is this of mine?’

Henry considered for a moment and then he said, ‘I think you might begin at the beginning.’ He stood. ‘There is a café just around the corner; perhaps this might be better discussed over a pot of tea.’

He glanced up, catching sight of a familiar figure coming down the stairs: his sergeant, Mickey Hitchens, who looked curiously in their direction and then clearly recognized Abraham.

‘Mr Levy,’ he said. ‘And what brings you here?’

‘A problem I cannot deal with on my own.’

Mickey frowned. The streets where Abraham Levy lived had been ruled by one Josiah Bailey and his family for quite some time, but had recently undergone a change of ownership – although the new ruler, Clem Atkins, had simply taken over both Bailey’s lieutenants and his criminal schemes. It was Mickey’s first thought that this was the source of the trouble.

‘No,’ Abraham reassured him. ‘Mr Atkins continues the work of Mr Bailey, you might say. Little has changed and the protection money we pay as businessmen has not gone up dramatically since the change of management. No, this is a personal matter. A missing person. I fear perhaps a dead missing person, and as no one else will help me, I have come to you.’

They walked to the Lyons’ Corner House that was set on the intersection of the Strand and Craven Street, and Henry ordered tea for them all. At two in the afternoon, they were between the crowds of lunchtime rush and the partakers of afternoon tea, and they found a table in a corner with a fair degree of privacy.

‘So, tell me,’ Henry said. ‘Who has gone missing, and why do you feel that no one has been of assistance to you?’

Abraham arranged his cup carefully on his saucer, positioning the spoon so that it protruded at the opposite side to the cup handle. He looked suddenly awkward. He had long, slender hands, Henry noted, with well-clipped nails. Hands that were used to being occupied now found themselves ill at ease.

‘On the third of this month my nephew caught a train,’ Abraham began. ‘His name is Joseph and he had been to visit his young lady – his intended. They are both young – Joseph is only nineteen years old and his fiancée is a year younger than that – and they are to be married in the autumn.’

‘It is very young to be married,’ Mickey observed.

‘In our community, not so young. We think it’s better that our children are safely married and have someone to care for and to care for them. Young ones often spend time living with their in-laws until they are ready to set up home for themselves. Anyway, Joseph and Rebecca are to be married – or were. Then Joseph caught the train to come home and he did not arrive.’

Mickey took out his notebook and set it on the table. ‘The train from where?’

‘He was travelling from Lincoln to London. He caught the train in Lincoln; Rebecca’s family saw him off there, so they know he got on the train. But he did not arrive.’

‘That’s a long journey,’ Henry observed. ‘He could have got off at any station in between. From what I remember, there are a great many going up towards Lincoln. Where would he have changed trains to come back to London?’

‘At Peterborough. Lincoln is on the loop from the main line that leaves Peterborough and, yes, there are a great many small stations on that line. Once in Peterborough, he could get the train back to King’s Cross – an easy journey, if a little long, but one he has made more than a dozen times.

‘His family contacted the police and were told that he was an adult and that adults go missing all the time and there should be no cause for concern; he would probably turn up. His family contacted the girl’s family, in Lincoln, and were told that he and Rebecca had argued before he left and had parted on bad terms. When the police heard this, they decided that the boy was not so keen on the marriage, after all, and had chosen to go off on his own somewhere.’

‘It’s certainly possible,’ Mickey said. ‘As I said before, they are both very young, and young minds can be changed – young people can be impulsive.’

‘All of that is true,’ Abraham agreed. ‘But that was on Sunday February the third and this is now Wednesday the twentieth. There has been no news since. He has not contacted his family or his fiancée or his friends. I know Joseph; he is not a boy who would put worry into the hearts of those he loves. If he had decided he did not want to marry, everyone would have understood. No one is being forced into this. But I do believe that he and Rebecca love one another.’

‘How long have they known each other?’ Henry asked.

‘Since childhood. Our families grew up within a few houses of one another. Then Rebecca’s family moved when she was twelve years old, but Joseph used to go up and stay there, and it was always understood that one day they would marry. But if either one of them had said no, we prefer to choose for ourselves, that would have been accepted, believe me.’

‘But it would have caused awkwardness, at the very least, I would suppose?’ Mickey suggested.

Abraham shrugged. ‘Awkwardness for a little time, perhaps, but it would have been accepted and people would have got over their upset. No one wishes our young people to marry and be unhappy. But we believed them to be happy.’

‘What was the quarrel about?’

Abraham hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with discussing his family business. ‘The argument was loud,’ he said. ‘The family overheard, of course. It seems that Rebecca wished to wait until at least next spring before they married. She said it was because her sister and brother-in-law would be coming to visit then and she wanted them to be at the wedding. Joseph was content to wait, but he did not believe her reasons and he challenged them. He asked if she really wanted to marry him, and she became angry, saying of course she did, but that she wished to wait just a little longer. Rebecca’s mother tells me that Joseph tried to be understanding and calm, and he suggested to her that she just had the usual reservations and that this was understandable. He said that he would be willing to wait, but Rebecca just became even more angry until Joseph said that he didn’t believe this was her reason at all, and that maybe she had another man.’

‘And is that likely?’

‘Not that anyone knows about, but young girls …’ He shrugged again. ‘Young men, too – their heads can be turned by the attention of someone who seems more exciting. So I don’t know. It’s possible. But she’s a good girl and I don’t believe she would deliberately hurt either Joseph or her family.’

‘And no one at all has had word from him? Friends might have heard and not told anyone?’

‘None of Joseph’s friends are so heartless. They have seen how we’ve all suffered, how worried we’ve been. His friends are also people he has known since childhood, who have known his family since childhood. We are a close-knit community, Inspector.’

‘Which might make him even more fearful of your disapprobation,’ Henry suggested. ‘Did he have any money with him?’

‘Not enough to have lasted all this time. He had enough for his journey, and emergency money, should he have to stay overnight somewhere, but little enough else.’

‘And have the police investigated?’

‘Investigated! Is that what you call it? They confirmed that he got on the train at Lincoln – there are witnesses aplenty for that – but as no one knows where he got off, all they could do – all they said they could do – was send a message down the line to ask at the stations. Our family have printed pictures and have these positioned at any stations that we have been able to reach, and Rebecca’s family have done the same. Police refuse to believe this is anything more than a young man who has chosen to go off by himself for a time. They seem to have spoken to no one; they seem to have found no evidence of Joseph’s existence after he left Lincoln.’

Mickey and Henry exchanged a glance. It seemed to them that all that could be done probably had been done. This was a big distance to search, and if there were no clues as to where the young man had left the train, then there would be no clues as to where he might have ended up.

‘And have there been any communications, any witnesses who have seen the posters and might’ve seen him?’

Abraham shook his head. ‘There have been a few individuals who have contacted our families to ask if there is a reward and who have obviously been giving us false information. Rambling stories that don’t make any sense. We’ve ensured that one of the menfolk has spoken to each one of these, but it soon became clear that they are all deceivers. It does not help that we are Jews.’

Henry opened his mouth to object to that last sentence and then closed it again, thinking that Abraham was probably right. He witnessed anti-Semitism all the time in his work, most of it casual and unthinking, rather than deliberately targeted, but nonetheless …

‘Who is handling the case now?’

‘Local constables in Lincoln and here. The railway police have been involved, of course.’ He reached into his pocket and took out a list of names. ‘These are the men we’ve had dealings with,’ he said. ‘No one has been helpful.’

‘And I’m not sure we can be of any more use,’ Mickey said frankly. ‘He could have gone missing anywhere along that route. He could have made a deliberate decision to go away for a time, found himself some casual work and lodgings, and not want to be found.’

‘And if that was the case, then we would leave him alone. But we would still need to know. You understand that?’

‘Mr Levy – Abraham – we are murder detectives. This is not directly within our purview.’

Abraham regarded them solemnly. ‘Joseph would not just go,’ he insisted. ‘Inspector, Sergeant Hitchens, believe me when I say that it is only a matter of time before this becomes your business. I believe that Joseph is dead. Had Joseph still been alive, he would have contacted his family; he would not have left them to suffer the way they have. He’s a good boy … Or he was a good boy. I am fearful – no, I am certain – that something bad has happened to him and that he is no longer alive.’

There was silence at the little table. Mickey picked up his cup, drained it and set it down gently. ‘It would do no harm to call in the files,’ he said. ‘I can take a look on my own time, but for now, Abraham, that is all we can do. You understand that?’

The clockmaker nodded. ‘When his body is found, which surely it must be sometime, you will need me to make introductions. As I’ve said, we are a close community and a closed one too in many ways; you will need someone from the inside of the community to open doors. You understand that?’

‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, eh?’ Mickey said.

Abraham nodded, then retrieved his hat and took his leave.

‘We both know he’s right,’ Henry said as the café door closed behind him.

‘More than likely, but we also know there’s not a lot we can do until a body turns up, and it’s a long way from Lincoln to London; the boy could have got off anywhere – or been thrown off.’ Mickey frowned.

‘True,’ Henry admitted. ‘Perhaps he was having second thoughts about the wedding after the argument and has simply taken off somewhere. That would be an alternative.’

‘Better to be heartbroken than a murder victim,’ Mickey agreed. ‘I’ll call in the files from the various constabularies and the railway police, see what we can find out. I doubt there will be much.’

‘And there is an outside chance that the boy may yet turn up,’ Henry said, but he did not sound at all hopeful.

‘He is just a boy,’ Mickey said quietly. ‘Though it’s not long since boys of that age were deemed fit to be fodder for the machine guns and mortars.’

‘And that was wrong,’ Henry said flatly. ‘And still is. No, you are right. If we don’t look into it, no one else will. We’ll give it an hour or two of our time – see if there is anything to be followed up. But, frankly, Mickey, I doubt there will be anything. Abraham will be as much in the dark after we have examined the files as he is now. And even if we do find something, unless the local constabulary ask for our help, we can still do nothing, and they will not ask unless the worst happens and a body is found.’

Mickey shrugged. ‘Cross that bridge,’ he said.

TWO

Cynthia was packing. Her maid had directed Henry to the dressing room and, after kissing his sister, he dropped, with a deep sigh, into the green nursing chair beside the narrow stained-glass window.

‘Sudden trip?’ he asked.

‘Decided this morning, at breakfast,’ Cynthia confirmed. ‘I am taking my husband away for a week or so. It’s for his own good; he is becoming very morose.’

‘And the reason for that?’

‘The reason for that, Henry, is that

Reviews for Clockmaker, The

[vesper1931 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

1929 and Joseph Levey has disappeared. Disappeared when travelling from his fiancée's home in Lincoln to London. It has been several weeks and his uncle Abraham Levey approaches a policeman he knows, Detective Chief Inspector Henry Johnstone. Going over the investigation is all that he and Sergeant Mickey Hitchens can really do until the expected body is discovered. And eventually it is.
But is the investigation as straightforward as he initially thought.
An enjoyable and interesting well-written mystery story, with some really good well-developed characters. Although the fourth in the series it can easily be read as a standalone book. Another good story in this delightful series.
A NetGalley Book